


Out of Tune

by OwenToDawn



Series: 15 Day Lyric Challenge 2020 [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Boot Worship, Dom/sub, Dry Humping, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Frottage, Leather Kink, M/M, Post-War, Service Submission, Spit Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25958170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwenToDawn/pseuds/OwenToDawn
Summary: Here, with Hubert, Sylvain exists on the tethered line between rest and vigilance, caught in between. The tension between the two is all encompassing. Stabilizing.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra
Series: 15 Day Lyric Challenge 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882966
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	Out of Tune

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on a roll so far to keep posting a fic a day for this challenge. I hope I keep it up
> 
> Today's fic is based on the lyric "No one can unring this bell/unsound this alarm, unbreak my heart new/God knows I am dissonance/Waiting to be swiftly pulled into tune" from the song Mercury by Sleeping At Last. 
> 
> Comments are of course loved

Felix wears anger like armor. Sylvain wears charm and flippancy instead. That’s all well and good until Fódlan is back under control of the Empire and Felix fucks off to who knows where and Sylvain is left unmoored in Enbarr. Well. Not entirely unmoored. Because Hubert and Edelgard aren’t stupid enough to leave a man with no direction in his life now that he’s renounced his land and titles to wander through their capitol city creating a mess of things. Felix has a purpose. Mercenary work will keep him occupied and as close to happy as he’ll ever get. It’ll keep the darker thoughts at bay.

And Sylvain has…this.

“Open.”

Hubert’s leather-clad fingers slide into his mouth, over his tongue and into the back of his throat. Sylvain doesn’t gag. Hubert thrusts his fingers again, rough, over and over, until drool spills over Sylvain’s tongue and down his chin and tears start to gather at the corners of his eyes. Through it all, Hubert stares down at him with a look trapped somewhere between affection and disinterest. The mixture makes Sylvain’s head spin.

“You’d take anything I gave you, wouldn’t you?” Hubert asks.

Sylvain knows better by now than to try and answer. He keeps his head still and his mouth open and lets Hubert shove his fingers deep one more time before pulling them out, slow, so his spit drips between Hubert’s fingers and his tongue. Sylvain doesn’t even twitch as it drops on his bare thighs. Hubert’s lips twist into something that could be a smile on another man and then gets to his feet. Sylvain keeps his mouth open and listens to Hubert walk to his desk.

When he returns, he’s holding an inkwell. He sits down in the chair Sylvain kneels in front of and places his little desk that reaches from arm to arm so he can deal with paperwork and missives while in a comfier chair. It’s…humanizing. Monsters don’t like to sit in comfortable chairs to do paperwork.

“Hold this for me,” Hubert says, holding out the inkwell.

Sylvain reaches up, holding his palm flat the way Hubert trained him, painfully aware that Hubert still hasn’t let him close his mouth. He can feel spit dripping off the edge of his tongue still. Hubert places the inkwell on his palm, grabs his quill, and settles in to work. After several minutes, Sylvain lets his eyes drift shut. That’s not against the rules, and in fact, Hubert has always encouraged him to find relaxation in any way he can when he’s under Hubert’s control.

Of course, there’s only so much he can relax when he’s trying to hold an inkwell steady in the palm of his hand, but it’s like the relaxation that comes with holding a good stretch after training. He exists on the tethered line between rest and vigilance, caught in between. The tension between the two is all encompassing. Stabilizing.

Hubert shifts, his shoe brushing Sylvain’s right thigh, then his calf, before settling between his legs. Sylvain doesn’t move. He knows the action isn’t a threat, or at least, it won’t be as long as he doesn’t mess up, but even then, Hubert always gives warning before causing him any pain. Sylvain likes pain, but in small doses, and never without warning. They’d learned that together the hard way when Hubert tried slapping him when he took too long to suck his cock and Sylvain had spent the rest of the day curled up in bed feeling like his world was crashing down around him.

For all his reputation of being heartless and cold, Sylvain has learned that Hubert is anything but.

“Well if you’re going to drool all over my shoe, you might as well be useful about it,” Hubert says.

Sylvain opens his eyes and watches as Hubert takes the inkwell off his hand, caps it, places it on his work board and then moves to set all of the items on the floor beside his chair. He doesn’t yet move. Hubert hasn’t given him an explicit order.

“Look down, look at the mess you’ve made,” Hubert says.

Sylvain obeys and even as he does so, more spit rolls off his tongue and onto Hubert’s black leather shoe. He wishes he could close his mouth. Humiliation roils through his stomach, but that’s just society’s expectations. Society doesn’t accept such messiness, such disrespect, but Hubert had ordered it of him, and he had obeyed. There’s nothing humiliating in that. That feeling has no place here between the two of them.

“Now get down and clean my shoes spotless with your tongue,” Hubert says.

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but once he’s in place, Sylvain bows the rest of the way to the floor, eyes sliding shut as he runs his tongue along the top of his shoe. It’s a dress shoe, no laces, and his tongue slides cleanly through the spit he’s already left on it since Hubert placed his foot between Sylvain’s legs. He runs his tongue along the seams that connect it to the sole and then up to where it covers just above his ankle bone. It doesn’t taste of anything except leather.

Hubert has a specific set of shoes just for this purpose. It’s one of the many small ways Hubert shows he cares, making sure there’s something that is exclusively for them to play with. A specific pair gloves, a specific pair of shoes, an assortment of items he makes Sylvain hold or carry for him in his mouth while he does work, all carefully selected and used only when they play this game. Sylvain isn’t quite sure why such knowledge makes him feel cared for. He’s always been one for sweeping gestures of emotions himself, but then, none of his grand overtures had ever been serious. Well…unless one counted his promise to Felix.

But then, apparently, that promise didn’t mean much to Felix either anymore.

“Well done, Sylvain. Sit back up. Close your mouth.”

Sylvain gives his shoe one last lick before straightening up, closing his mouth and wincing at the way his jaw aches from how long he had it open. Hubert reaches forward, cupping his cheek in his gloved hand.

“I’m going to slap you,” Hubert says. “That’s your reward for doing a good job for me, understand? You may answer.”

“Yes, Hubert,” Sylvain says.

Hubert draws his hand away and Sylvain closes his eyes. Nothing happens. It’s just silence. He sits once more in the tension between rest and vigilance.

Pain explodes over his right cheek, the crack of leather on flesh sounding so loud in his ears, and he moans, hips jerking as his cock drools pre-come at the sensation it sends flowing through him.

"Thank you, Hubert,” Sylvain says, but it comes out slurred. He feels like he can’t focus his eyes when he opens them, but only because he feels like he’s dipped down into some safe space deep within his mind.

“You’re welcome, Sylvain. Would you like one more?” Hubert asks.

“Please, yes, Hubert,” Sylvain says.

“Beg.”

“Please hit me, Hubert, please slap me again, please I want-“

Hubert’s palm cracks against his left cheek and Sylvain feels like his world has suddenly moved back onto its proper axis, like everything is finally calm once more and there’s nothing he has to look over his shoulder for. Pain radiates from his cheeks down his neck, but he loves it, loves what it represents.

“Straddle my leg,” Hubert says. “Grind your cock against my leg like the helpless boy you are and come.”

“Thank you, Hubert,” Sylvain gasps out, even though he’s not sure if he’s even allowed. He can’t help it. He’s just…grateful. Truly. Deep down in his bones, he’s grateful to have all of this.

He presses forward, pillowing his head on Hubert’s thigh, eyes open but unfocused as Hubert’s hand cards through his hair and he presses his cock against the hard muscle of Hubert’s calf. He’s wearing his cotton pants, and the smooth fabric feels nice, if a little rough as he fucks up against his leg. He feels mindless with it. There’s nothing to focus on but the gentle hand in his hair and the burn in his cheeks and the pleasure of having something firm and warm to fuck his cock against.

It’s overwhelming in one way, but in another, Sylvain feels at peace. He wants to come, he wants the pleasure, but it’s nice to just float here, on the edge of release, bound between Hubert’s will and his own desires.

"Hubert, may I…” Sylvain groans and takes a deep breath. “May I come, Hubert?”

“Of course you may, come all over my leg, Sylvain. Make a mess. I want you to.”

Sylvain squeezes his eyes shut tight, arousal pooling low in his gut, in his balls, tightening up as he drives his cock faster against Hubert’s leg, before finally the delicate tightrope he’s been balancing on for hours snaps and he falls down, giving into the feelings of his body. He comes hard, shooting come almost all the way up to Hubert’s knee. He shudders and shakes and gasps his way through it. Hubert pulls his head back as he does, and Sylvain stares helplessly into eyes that see right through him and into the soft insides he tries so hard to hide.

“There you go, just like that,” Hubert says.

He lets go and Sylvain’s head drops forward. So does the rest of him. He goes boneless and still against Hubert’s leg as he comes down from the orgasm, and the last of the cobwebs that have seemed to trap his thoughts and emotions from the last few weeks finish falling away. By the time he feels aware again, Hubert has already helped him up onto the couch at the other end of his study.

“Thank you,” he says as Hubert wipes his cock down with his handkerchief.

“You never have to thank me for this, but you are welcome nonetheless,” Hubert says. “Now rest.”

Sylvain obeys.


End file.
